It was the first thing anyone ever wanted to know, and on the surface of it, it was a reasonable enough inquiry. But then it always ran into a sad, boring, tiresome litany of other questions. Who are you, where do you come from, what are you doing here, what do you do, have you ever done this before, are you sure you know what you're doing, and one had to be prepared to answer any or all of them at a moment's notice, or face suspicion.

Who are you? was an idiot's question. Even when you answered it truly, it told them nothing important.

The most important question was just as simple, and yet, they never bothered to ask.

Who in this case was an irritated-looking, lanky lad around twenty, with dark rumbled hair just long enough to pull back in a short puff like a bunny's tail on the back of his neck. The loose, much-faded clothes, a small black tattoo on the side of his neck, and the dark bronze color of his skin marked him a sailor of no real rank. He was bundled into a dark blue jacket much too large for him; the sleeves hung long enough to fold over his cold hands before he stuffed them into his armpits. For about a quarter hour, he had been shuffling back and forth near the gate in an effort to keep himself warm. Every so often, he extracted a hand and touched a small, hard, linen-wrapped bundle pinned under his shirt, against his skin.

He shuffled in place, not quite pacing. He was going to have to start doing something to keep warm very shortly and he didn't want to stray far from his assigned meeting-place. His slanted apple-green eyes shifted toward everything that sounded remotely like footsteps, since he didn't know who he was supposed to be looking for but was acutely aware that simply being here after dark made him stand out as extremely suspicious and libel to be grabbed and questioned. Who are you? What are you doing here? And while he had answers for both questions, they would both be extremely embarrassing and he'd just as soon give up and clear off as stick around long enough for the awkwardness.

"Feckin' cold, feckin' cold, feckin' cold," he muttered under his breath, like a mildly blasphemous prayer. His hands sneaked out of his armpits long enough to turn up his coat collar in wan hope of providing a fraction more protection for his ears. "Where is that bugger anyways?"

"We don't have a dungeon. We have a cold cellar and a cheeseroom. No one ever orders the prisoner cast into their darkest cheeseroom."

Unlike the man he'd been contracted to escort, the itinerant swordsman was not particularly bothered by the cold. Coal-black hair was left loose instead of its customary pull-back-and-tie behind his head, given him a slightly disheveled, roguish appearance. It framed his noble features surprisingly well, and it added faint sinister air to those amber eyes, which seemed to almost glow under his coal brows. Indeed, he was dressed completely different tonight. What use was armor and a sword going to be in a brothel, after all?

His pants he kept, as they were fashionable enough to wear outside with normal clothing, but instead of his cuirass, he wore a fine, black doublet, the same that he'd worn several nights previous to the Dagger during the festival. His gauntlets he retained, but altogether he looked like a civilian. Coupled with the lack of armament, he could have been any man of relatively mediocre standing and some coin to his name. He spotted the nervous young man - or perhaps he was just cold the way he was moving about - and made his way to him. Thus far the constabulatory hadn't sent anyone his direction, so they were in the clear. He hoped it would stay that way, because he absolutely didn't want to deal with the town guard in anything other than a friendly capacity. Likely it wouldn't end that way if they were approached tonight.

"You're here early," he said, gravelly voice tinged with that hint of Eastern inflection. He was certain of this, as he was never late. It was the boy he was here for, at least if Niabh's description of him was to be trusted.

After a moment, he unfolded his right hand from its hiding place and pushed back his coat's deep cuff long enough to expose his fingers. If the rest of the signs of a sailor weren't obvious, the hand was a dead giveaway: rough, square, and rope-burned, with a thin black line of tar around the cuticles. "I'm Aubram." There, one question avoided.

Now that the mark had arrived, he seemed a bit less irritable, as if up until Jasen actually arrived, he'd been expected a set-up. His shoulders unhunched from around his ears and settled into a comfortable slouch, his thumbs tucked under his broad woven belt. He had a friendly, easy grin, slightly snaggle-toothed in just the right way to make it completely infectious. "Nah, I ain't early. Thought I might've missed you, actually. Oh." He tucked a hand back into his coat, completely heedless of the fact that this looked exactly as if he was going for a weapon, and quickly produced the bundle from inside his shirt. "She said this was for you? I ain't opened it."

He passed it over to Jasen.

"We don't have a dungeon. We have a cold cellar and a cheeseroom. No one ever orders the prisoner cast into their darkest cheeseroom."

"Jasen," the man replied, extending his gloved hand and taking the man's for a firm shake. That answered the question of who he was there to meet and if he'd got it right in the first place. Though he'd yet to have a truly bad experience in town, there was always a first time, and he was thankful this wasn't going to be it.

His brows furrowed together as the young man reached into his pocket and retrieved something. That it could be a weapon had occurred to Jasen, but it didn't cause him to shift or move instinctively. Either he was oblivious, which he was happy to pretend to be, or he wasn't concerned about the young man wielding a dagger at him, which if one was honest was probably more alarming. The package was taken in hand, and he unwrapped it discreetly before folding it back up and hiding it away into an interior pocket his doublet. With that particular bit of business completed, it was on to the task at hand.

"So where are we headed?" He'd intentionally left any weaponry at home given he'd not be able to take them into the teahouse, but that didn't make him any less prepared for something terrible. One didn't hire a bodyguard to go carousing with whores. Whatever this boy was going to get into, it wasn't going to end well.

The young man likewise appeared unarmed. He wasn't, although a wool sock with a handful of pebbles in it was definitely a weapon of last resort, and only good for what he considered "tavern-trouble" as opposed to trouble-trouble. Tavern-trouble was a pickpocket or a drunk who couldn't take a hint. Trouble-trouble was...well, it was what you paid bodyguards for. Real trouble was something else entirely, and he hoped that sort of thing kept itself out of the town proper. Actually...thinking on it, the closest thing to real trouble tonight might be him. It was a nice, cozy thought.

"Whorehouse, I thought," the lad said cheerfully. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. "Though be honest, I'm a wee bit henseful what kind of whorehouses you got in this hole that I need a sell-sword at me back before I dare set foot in 'em. Buuuuut..." He gave the man a lopsided grin. "Little madam's footin' the bill on you so I don't ask questions."

"We don't have a dungeon. We have a cold cellar and a cheeseroom. No one ever orders the prisoner cast into their darkest cheeseroom."

"I don't know, but she asked me a favor, and I obliged her as a friend," he said. It had occurred to him more than once that the official reason for asking him to do this had nothing to do with the teahouse, but he took her request at face value and decided ahead of time to be prepared for...well, for anything, or as much as he could mentally train himself for. He was unarmed, but that made him no less dangerous, and if they had to fight someone off, it would become immediately apparent. "Well, as I'm your escort for the evening, lead the way, Aubram." He motioned with one gloved hand into the downtown district of Myrkentown. Once they got underway, he fell into step beside him, walking on his left side and a step and a half behind him.

He'd spent some time in Myrkentown proper, despite his proclivity for spending his evenings in the Dagger, and he'd recognized it for what it was: another city with good and bad standing side by side. It was like any other, if perhaps exhibiting some greater paranoia toward the unnatural and magical. As with every other city, there was the very real possibility that bodily harmed lurked around the next corner or sat in that doorway you just passed. There was also the possibility that nothing untoward happened to you during your entire visit. He was hoping for the latter.